


A Dump of Third Reich Ficlets

by rasdvatri



Category: Historical RPF, Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nazi Germany, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasdvatri/pseuds/rasdvatri
Summary: A book consisting of nothing but unrelated ficlets about gay nazis. Rated M for the topic, not the content!
Kudos: 14





	1. H. Himmler / R. Heydrich

**Author's Note:**

> Somebody needs to feed this malnourished fandom.

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Outside of Himmler’s office door, the tapping of leather jackboots on the ground echoed ever-so quietly. Himmler was pacing back and forth, around his office desk, around the armchair and around the guest he had sitting on a spare chair, his loyal companion, Heydrich. Heydrich had stopped by mere minutes ago and was babbling about his reputation. It delighted Himmler to seem trustworthy enough for the timid man; he hardly ever spoke about personal matters with conviction. To celebrate such an event, Himmler had decided to stop his work and listen to his right-hand man, always humming or nodding when Heydrich made rare pauses.

Time passed and it seemed like Heydrich had no intention of halting his speech about how much he loathed his newly-heard nickname – The Hangman. It sounded terrifying and terrific at the same time, Himmler thought, the perfect nickname for an SS official – it immediately demanded respect. Heydrich’s moaning about it made it sound like he wanted to appear loving and amiable in the eyes of his foes and it forced Himmler to let out a chuckle. The office room suddenly got quiet as his second-in-command stopped talking and looked at Himmler, probably expecting to hear what humor he found in his words.

“The Schutzstaffel is no place for sentiments, Reinhard,” Himmler remarked, approaching and slightly leaning over the back of the chair Heydrich sat on, hands gripping its’ edges.

“I’m not looking for sentiments, I just find it insulting,” Heydrich retorted, side-facing the Reichsführer, not flinching away from his superior, and, if anything, leaning back on the chair to get closer. He gave Himmler, who took a second too long to reply, a tiny triumphant smile as if he’d just won a competition of clever comebacks. Himmler smiled back at him, or, rather, grinned. Retreating one hand from the comfortable top rail of the chair, he pressed it against Heydrich’s head, entangling his fingers with Heydrich’s blond hair as the taller man was too confused to act. He hesitated for a moment, or maybe took that time to close his eyes, before pressing their lips together. The gesture could hardly have been a kiss, more like Himmler’s skin brushing up against Heydrich, because his Aryan ideal rose up from that chair as soon as he felt the sensation.

Himmler looked at Heydrich’s face. The man had a bewildered look in his eyes, like Himmler had just whispered him an outrageous secret, something so absurd and appalling that not even the man with the iron heart could take. Of course, this wasn’t something he could have anticipated, not when being aware of all the statements about "degeneracy" that came from Himmler or other party members. His brows were furrowed, he looked so perplexed and at a loss. Neither said a word and Himmler had to keep himself from smirking at his lost partner.

Heydrich tore his eyes off of Himmler and glanced at the floor before silently making his way out of the office. Himmler watched him attentively until the very moment the door closed shut. He knew that what he did was not a mistake nor was it a spontaneous decision. Heydrich won’t tell anyone. Why would he, when every chance he got, he spent his time with Himmler, spilling his bottled-up thoughts and ideas, why would he have played his violin when the only audience he had was Himmler, and why would he show up uninvited to Himmler’s office all giddy and uncharacteristically talkative?

The shock will wear off.

Heydrich might be impulsive, but he’s not stupid – he’ll realize what Himmler had long realized soon enough.

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	2. J. von Ribbentrop / H. Goering

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Ribbentrop kept his eyes set on the plate of cake he had before him, taking occasional bites, despite how the sweetness of it started to hurt his throat. He was invited to a “formal” dinner with the heads of the Third Reich, but the only formalities were their suits and the restaurant’s setting.

The conversation had started with the Gestapo, but ended up being almost like a weird family reunion with Hitler spewing something about his villa and how he couldn’t wait for “this bitter frost to withdraw from Germany”. Ribbentrop couldn’t have agreed more, but he kept quiet. Perhaps he would’ve engaged in talking a bit more, but after slipping on sheer ice and stumbling backwards straight into Goering, who caught him as if he were some damsel in distress, he didn’t feel like saying a word. He wondered if others had seen it, though hardly anything could make him look more laughable in their eyes than he already was.

He continued to sit in silence, avoiding eye-contact, especially with Goering, who was seated right next to him, and hoped that the Luftwaffe commander wouldn’t mention Ribbentrop almost splitting his skull open on the stairs to this restaurant. Goering’s hostility towards the ambassador was no secret, often regarding him as incompetent and unqualified for his position, calling him a “stupid ass” and probably berating him whenever someone mentioned foreign affairs. Though, surprisingly, Goering had been keeping his mouth shut for the longest time; maybe he just couldn’t cut in with the Fuhrer’s rambling that only Goebbels was genuinely interested to hear.

Ribbentrop was about to take another bite of that sugared slice of cake, but he felt something brush up against his thigh, twice after he ignored it the first time. He finally glanced down – underneath the white tablecloth was Goering’s knee touching his leg. Ribbentrop wanted to glare at Goering, but he just crossed his legs to give the larger man more space. As meek as this action was, he wasn’t about to cause a scene in Hitler’s presence over how the table was too small.

Disregarding how uncomfortable this sitting position made him feel, he shoved the slice of cake in his mouth and took a glass of champagne in an attempt to balance the sweetness that his taste receptors were not used to. Taking one, two sips, he almost spilt it when chills went up his body; a hand touched his leg, making its’ way from the knee to the thigh and back, caressing him as if he were some prized possession. Though the touch was gentle and smooth, it made his insides twist and turn, made him feel like an object of some fantasy; like a girl being groped at one of those lavish parties Goering liked to throw. Ribbentrop looked at the man, but his stare was not returned as Goering was looking directly at Hitler and smirking, unlikely that the devious smile was meant for the Reich’s leader, though, as Goering could easily see Ribbentrop in his peripheral vision, no doubt enjoying how upset the ambassador got.

Ribbentrop uncrossed his legs and grabbed Goering’s hand, jerking it away from himself defensively. The swift movement earned him a weird look from Himmler, who sat across, but Ribbentrop was too flustered to care about anything but himself and the intentions of the man next to him. Finally, Goering turned to him as well, faking a curious look as if he wasn’t the one inappropriately handling him and purposefully bruising his masculinity.

“What are you doing?” Ribbentrop asked through clenched teeth, a pause after each word. He kept his voice down, but made sure that Goering heard him.

“What _am_ I doing?” Goering’s tone was bold and he almost sounded proud.

Ribbentrop hesitated to answer for a second. He wasn’t going to respond in great detail about how Goering rubbed his thigh; how awkward would that be? In case that Himmler or someone else could hear them, the immediate label of “degenerate” would undoubtedly attach itself.

“Stop it,” was the best response Ribbentrop thought of.

Goering turned from him, dedicating all of his attention back to Hitler’s speech, and Ribbentrop couldn’t help but exhale softly.

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	3. E. Rommel / G. von Rundstedt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i one of the first to write a ficlet about rundstedt? i'm humbled.

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For a couple of days Rundstedt loomed over the strategy table, carefully looking at the different maps and analyzing their details. From time to time, he scribbled something on a loose piece of paper, no doubt ripped from an old notebook with how the light-yellow color brought contrast to the dark wooden table. Assuming he had some grand strategy plan, everyone just left him to his work and had no more consideration for it. But just as any other fox, the Desert Fox was attentive to all details – how Rundstedt did not go to his bed at night, how little he ate and how red and tired his eyes looked when Rommel brought him a bowl of porridge and he glanced up to mutter a “thanks”.

Though Rommel hated prying into others’ business, he hated seeing honorable people harm themselves like this even more, so he had decided to get Rundstedt to rest for at least a night. A favor from one general to another, if nothing else.

Despite the dark evening sky, the weather was a refreshing one and, other than the occasional wind breezing, it was warm and pleasant to stay outside. Rommel thought that it would do Rundstedt some good if he were to take in some air as well, so before entering the tent he made sure to hook its’ flaps open. The older general did not even notice his guest, at least not until his scribbled papers started flying from underneath the lightweight maps and his surprisingly fast reflexes allowed him to catch them.

“ _Guten Abend_ ,” Rommel gave a quick smile and finally made his way to the table that Rundstedt was practically glued to.

“Did you need something?” Rundstedt asked before letting his gaze wander back to a map where he was tracing some byroad with his pinky finger, already pretty uninterested in whatever Rommel’s answer may be. Rommel curtly plopped down next to Rundstedt on the bench which was disproportionately lengthier than the table (not that its’ length mattered when the generals were this close, anyway).

“I thought that _you_ might need something,” Rommel responded and bluntly stared at Rundstedt until the other finally tore his eyes off the papers.

“What are you talking about?” Rundstedt inquired. He was either too tired or too unsuspecting of Rommel’s goodwill to make out the implication.

“Sleep. You should relax for the night.”

Rundstedt raised an eyebrow and nodded towards his papers. Rommel snorted; how the older general managed to only think about these damn papers was inconceivable, almost astonishing to him.

“You know, overworking yourself may lead to insomnia,” Rommel explained, surprised at his own soft voice after that unpleasant laugh had escaped his lips. Perhaps this tone was exactly what made Rundstedt put down his unintelligible writings and listen to Rommel; and Rommel, of course, used his undivided attention to further prove the point. He mentioned how the disorder is linked to sleep habits and how Rundstedt’s age affected how well he handled stress. And Rundstedt took in every single word. So, Rommel continued, eventually shifting topics and touching upon his personal life as well as some other unrelated things.

He stopped when he realized that he was the only one talking. For a second, he thought that perhaps Rundstedt was just too polite to interrupt him, but after he took a good look at the general in the dim light, he saw that that wasn’t the case at all. Somehow Rommel missed the part where Rundstedt had fallen asleep on him, his head pressed against Rommel’s arm and his chest slowly rising and falling with steady breathing.

Rommel wondered for how long he had been talking to himself or how he had gotten so self-absorbed that he couldn’t even feel Rundstedt bumping into him. He wasn’t bothered by it, though, on the contrary he was glad that he finally succeeded in his goal – yet another victory achieved by the Desert Fox.

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End file.
